


The Adventures of Chaos Squad

by raemanzu, RiverWolf, spica_tea



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Blood and Injury, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Clones, Gen, Head Injury, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:15:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raemanzu/pseuds/raemanzu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverWolf/pseuds/RiverWolf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spica_tea/pseuds/spica_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When people first hear the name "Chaos Squad", they think the chaos stands for daring and danger. This bunch of misfit clones bond over how often they're a danger to themselves. A collection of short OC-centric fics inspired by the angsty laughter of a four-person online friend group, consisting of the authors and tumblr users akitla and jasjuliet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stitch Gets Stitched

            A lot of things weren’t entirely clear to Stitch, when he opened his eyes. First of all, there was some dark liquid in his right eye, and secondly everything was shifting, wobbly and doubled on itself. The black blur in the left half of his vision slowly clarified. Rocks. Great. Was he lying on his side, staring across a rocky beach? Where did the ocean end? But then he saw the trooper skidding precariously toward him and realized the rocks were a cliff, the sea was the sky, and the captain was coming to get him.

            Dread filled him as he tried to remember what he’d been doing. He was the medic, and this was only their third mission together, and he’d already become a casualty. Rule number one as a medic: _don’t become a casualty yourself_. That had been drilled into him so many times, and so many times he had come a little too close to breaking it, but it was always a delicate balance when the first priority was other troopers. They would kick him out of the battalion for sure, maybe send him back, or… maybe he had just blown his last chance.

            Stitch tried to sit up, reassure Captain Mittens that he was alright, lift an arm, anything. But the movement just sent him lurching over onto his stomach, hugging the nearest large rock as his head pounded. Every inch of his body felt battered. Not good. Where was his helmet, anyway?

            “Stitch? Trooper, are you alright?” The captain’s sharp voice sent a spike of panic through Stitch and he tried to take a deep breath.

            “Yes sir,” he finally managed to groan, still struggling to sit up.

            “Stop that! Hey! You’re injured! At ease!”

            “’snothing.” Stitch’s voice sounded rather slurred to his own ears. He flinched at the orders. Not a casualty. Not a casualty. “I’s…getting up, sir. I’ll get… back to the front.”

            “Your head is _covered_ in blood!” The captain’s exasperated voice wobbled a bit—or maybe it was Stitch’s hearing. Hard to tell. “Lie down. That’s an order!”

            “But….” Stitch said, conflicted. “Yes, sir.”

            “Battle’s over, anyway, brother!” a more boisterous voice said. Suddenly, Sammich was there, the friendly bearded one, face swimming into the patch of black and blue that was Stitch’s field of vision.

            “I’m very… sorry, Captain.” The words strung together miraculously on their way out of Stitch’s mouth. “I’ll start… treating the wounded….”

            “No you won’t!” Mittens pushed him firmly back down onto his back, but his eyes were averted.

            “I found his med pack!” A third trooper came over, the one aptly named Spill. Oh no, Stitch thought. More brothers, all of them running to see what a disappointment he was. With his luck, General Windu himself would show up next.

            “Cap…tain… permission to—”

            “No,” Mittens said, before Stitch had even finished. “Spill, mop up the blood, let’s see how bad it is.”

            “Ea-sy does it,” said Sammich, and Stitch felt gentle hands on his hair, carefully lifting his head and shoulders, propping him up on something so Spill could start dabbing at his face, eyebrows pinched in concern. Mittens waved a medical scanner over Stitch’s face and winced.

            “Ugh.” Stitch’s stomach sank at Mitts’ tone of voice, but then the captain took Spill’s hand and forcibly moved the cloth over to the top of Stitch’s forehead—the skin there seemed to catch fire and Stitch grunted. “Spill, it’s right there, I think the skull might even be fractured. What happened to you?”

            Stitch tried to say he didn’t remember, but an incomprehensible moan just came out instead.

            “Ah… I see it,” Spill fretted, leaning closer to inspect the wound now that some of the blood was cleared away. “We’ve gotta close the wound somehow, I guess. There’s exposed bone.”

            “The other squads are too far away already,” Mittens muttered. “We’ll have to do it ourselves. Uhh… you can do it, Sammy, right?”

            “What? Me?” Sammich grinned faintly, looking terrified. “Ahh… no good, cap, isn’t there someone else who can do it better? Medical stuff isn’t really my specialty.”

            “Just slap on a bacta patch,” Mittens suggested.

            “Weren’t you on a bomb squad or something?” Spill asked. “I would do it, but I’m afraid I’d mess up….”

            “Defusing a bomb and stitching someone’s head together are two _totally_ different things,” Sammich laughed nervously. “But I’ll try… unless you wanna do it, Spill.”

          “Uh… we can do it together, I guess. One of us will probably have to try and hold the skin together anyway.”

            “Is that right? Won’t it tear?” Sammich’s grimace was getting more and more dramatic.

            “Well the bone is just right there!” Spill said. “ _Will_ a bacta patch work?”

            “Ahh… they’re all ruptured,” said Mittens. “All over the medpack. What a mess….”

            “Br…others,” Stitch breathed, swimming through the sight of their faces fading in and out of sense. “Listen… anti….”

            “Antiseptic?” Spill guessed.

            “What if we just rubbed some of the bacta on his head and wrap it all up in bandages?” Sammich suggested.

            “Antiseptic,” Stitch said. “Bacta’s… antiseptic. How… how big?”

            “How big is the wound?” Spill guessed.

            “Yeah.”

            “Uh….” Sammich held his spread hand up close to Stitch’s forehead, then withdrew it and motioned to indicate the length of his index finger. “About that long.”

            Stitch closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed and struggling to breathe.

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Sammich cried. “Stitch, no dying allowed!”

            “He’s not dying,” Mitts scoffed. “At least, not according to his vital signs.”

            “Wide?” Stitch choked out.

            “A bit, yeah,” Spill said nervously.

            “Will it stay put with just a bandage?” Mittens asked, unraveling a bacta-soaked roll.

            “I don’t think so.”

            Black fuzz was on the corners of Stitch’s vision. “Any… anything in the wound?”

            Mitts scanned it again. “No.”

            “Stitches,” Stitch grunted. “Clean the blood… disinfect… dry. Start the stitch… close to the edge, but… not… tear through.” 

            “Ah, sorry,” Spill said, fishing out the needle while Sammich dabbed disinfectant on Stitch’s head. “Which edge?”

            “The… edge,” Stitch said, but Spill continued to look confused. “Of the wound.”

            “Just any edge?”

            “Yes, any edge!” Mitts snapped.

            “Start close…” Stitch started to say, but lost the thread of the thought. He tried to focus, frantic. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

            “No, no, I can do it, brother,” Spill said quietly, although he still looked nervous. “I’ll give it a try, anyway. Hold still.”

            “Good man, Spill,” Mitts said faintly. “I mean, I could do it if no one else was here, but… you’re better at dealing with…er… I’ll stand guard.”

            “I’ll hold the wound together,” Sammich offered, and Stitch felt his hands on his forehead, pressing the skin closer.

            Stitch felt the needle go in, but it was nothing compared to the pulsing all over his head. All he could see was a mess of arms, Spill’s look of concentration, Sammich’s unusual frown, and the back of Mitts’ head as he stood guard.

            “Is that right?”

            “Yeah,” Stitch said weakly, although he couldn’t see what Spill was doing at all.

            Sammich smiled again suddenly. Maybe forced. Oh, no. They were trying to help but he was such an inconvenience, he was keeping them from moving on with the rest of the battalion. How would they get back up the cliff, dragging his useless body? What if he dragged them all down with him?

            “Wait,” Stitch gasped, and Spill jumped, a look of horror on his face for a moment, then relief.

            “Sorry! Yikes, I nearly tore the stitch… I think it’s okay.”

            “This… waste of time,” Stitch struggled to say. “Leave me here. Y…can’t…carry me up…on your own.”

            Spill’s face fell. “Eh… I’m not doing it right, then?” He lifted one hand away from Stitch’s face in apology. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

            “No! You’re doing f…fine, brother.” Stitch felt sick. He was being dramatic again. He could almost hear his old general’s voice mocking him. “You’re not doing anything wrong. Just… finish up… get out of here. Th… other wounded who need you more.”

            “And just leave you here?” Sammich said in a quiet rumble. “That’s not happening.”

            “I’m the Captain of this squad and I don’t leave men behind,” Mitts said stubbornly, glancing over his shoulder with a severe look. “We _will_ take you back to the battalion. Spill, keep stitching.”

            “Yes sir.” Spill looked relieved and set back to work.

            “I’m sorry, Captain,” Stitch said, horrified when his voice shook. He swallowed and tried again, but only a small choked noise came out before he reconsidered and shut up. What could he say that wouldn’t be pathetic or argumentative?

            “Easy,” Sammich murmured. He sounded so calm. “Easy.”

            “Yeah,” Spill said. “Almost there….”

            “I’m sorry,” Stitch whispered again, struggling to breathe calmly. He wanted to pass out, and thought of telling Spill to load up a hypo.

            “It’s fine,” Mitts said lightly, not turning to look at him. “Just try to relax.”

            “Guys, we forgot to give him any painkillers!” Sammich said suddenly.

            “I think I’ve got it from here, Sammy,” Spill said. “See what you can find in his pack.”

            “Got it.” Stitch felt something shift under his head, saw Sammich’s arms reaching to drag the medpack over, heard it scrape against the rocks.

            “Is there… blood in my eye again?” he mumbled, and again it didn’t come out as more than a creak under his breath. He lifted a hand weakly but decided against rubbing it. “It feels wet.”

            Spill sat back a bit to look, and glanced away for a second before giving a tiny smile. “Don’t worry, it’s just water.”

            The water trickled down into his ear. “Oh.” Stitch felt a distant clenching of his stomach and was afraid for a moment he was going to be sick, but it passed. “Did you… spill some on me?”

            A laugh came from Spill like he’d been kicked, but he still looked upset, and another one came from Sammich.

            “Did you _spill_ some. Bahaha!”

            Mitts groaned.

            “Un…unintentional, sir,” Stitch croaked.

            “Oh yeah. Sure it was.”

            “Okay, okay,” said Spill, taking a deep breath. “I’m almost done here…. How do I end the stitch?”

            “Y…you have to….” Stitch paused a moment as Sammich emptied a hypo into his neck. “Cut the thread and tie both ends….”

            “Uh, Sammich,” Mitts said. “Are you sure that was the right hypo?”

            “Looked right to me.”

            “Okay…I guess it’s too late now if it isn’t.”

            “Wait, wait,” Spill said, grimacing. “Both ends? But I… I stitched all the way up your head in one go, how….”

            “Oh… you’re… s’posed to do one stitch at a time….” It was more complicated than that but Stitch couldn’t find the words. The painkillers were starting to work.

            “Great.” Spill’s face fell. “I ruined it.”

            “No, it’s… it’s fine, just… do your best…tie it off at the end. Doesn’t really matter.”

            “Okay….”

            “Yeah, no point worrying about it now,” Mitts said, and Spill squared his shoulders.

            “Right.” He took a deep breath and continued in silence for a few minutes. Stitch felt more water in his ear and tried to lift a hand, but realized someone’s hand was resting on his own. Sammich. The bearded clone smiled sadly and said nothing.

            Confused, Stitch tried to stop the tears. Just physical shock, he told himself. His chest felt funny, like something was about to pop out of place if he took a deep breath. He tried not to. His breath hitched shallowly instead.

            Spill met his eyes with a worried look, a tentative smile. Then, a few more seconds focus, and he sat back.

            “I think I did it. You can look now, Mitts.”

            Mittens turned around, still seeming uneasy, but he looked straight at Stitch’s head for a moment, then nodded and looked away. “It’ll do for now. Let’s put some bacta on it and get him up the cliff. Sammich, I’ll trade off with you. Spill, you bring his medpack.”

            “Yes sir!”

            Stitch felt soaked and heavy in self-loathing as his brothers carefully surrounded him and lifted him onto Sammich’s shoulders. His body was like a useless sack of rocks, and he started to tremble before the painkillers kicked in fully.

            “Okay, okay, I got him.”

            “Stand up nice and slow.”

            Sammich breathing carefully under him as his weight shifted.

            “It’ll be alright, Stitch.”

            They began plodding up the cliff, Sammy’s weight lurching a bit when the rocks underneath shifted unexpectedly. Nervous laughter. Stitch closed his eyes against the wobbling rocks and leg armor beneath him, dizzy.

            “If you drop him on his head, Sammich, I _swear_ ,” Mitts said with exaggerated severity.

            “He’s not serious.” An earnest voice. “He’s just teasing you because you’re new on the team.”

            “Thanks Spill.” More laughter. “I caught that.”

            “ _And_ younger.”

            “By what, a few months? Hey, young but careful!”

            “So far so good.”

            “Stay on the Captain’s good side and you’ll be just fine,” said an amused whisper.

            “Oh come on. Am I that bad?”

            Fuzzily, another surge of guilt. Stitch’s face was going numb. He’d upset Mittens, he knew he had. And the Captain had been so welcoming to him when he’d transferred.

            A sigh from someone. “I’m sure if either of you had done the stitches they’d look a lot better.”

            “Yeah, well….” The voice sounded uncomfortable.

            “As long as they do the job, right? You’ve got good nerves for this stuff, maybe you should have been a medic.”

            “I dunno.” A laugh. Their voices began to blur together, the words no longer making sense. When Sammich lunged forward again, the swaying motion pulled Stitch into the darkness and didn’t let him back up.

…

            Something cold and wet touched the small of his back. Stitch jerked into consciousness and tried not to scream, tried to lie still and recall where he was. His heartbeat began to race. Enemy? His armor was gone. His muscles locked up, his head throbbed in a haze.

            Fingers brushed against him carelessly while attaching the patch; a hand came down firmly on his head. “Easy, trooper. You’re in medical. Relax and let the bacta do its work. I’ll be back.”

            Footsteps. Stitch realized he was lying nearly on his stomach, and curled up a little, shamed as he remembered the squad carrying him back, the disgust in Mittens’ face at the sight of him. They’d wasted time for him, the useless member of the team. Because of principle. Mittens was a good, rule-abiding captain, Spill and Sammich following his lead, following protocol: medics were, theoretically, valuable resources. But not him. They just didn’t know it yet.

            He needed to get up, find the casualty list, report for a duty shift. Apologize. Weakly, he tried to push himself into a sit, and open his eyes. It took several seconds to gather the strength to try. He thought of his old general and the memory of the Jedi’s angry voice pushed him into action. General Windu would surely never let a useless medic stay in his battalion.

            “Stitch!” snapped a voice. “Stay down!”

            Stitch froze, staring at Mittens, who had just jumped up from the floor of the medical tent and was reaching for him. Spill was there too, kneeling, worried.

            “Captain,” Stitch gasped. “I’m sorry, sir.”

            “Don’t apologize, just lie down and rest. You’re not fit to be up yet!”

            Someone swore softly on Stitch’s other side, and he turned to see Sammich staring at him in awe. “You’re tough as a Trandoshan, or something, I swear, kid! After getting banged up this much you’re still trying to get up and go?” He shook his head. “Respect, brother. Massive respect.”

            “But you do need to rest,” Spill insisted quietly. He reached out and let his hand rest lightly on Stitch’s head. “Please lie down.”

            “With all due respect, Captain,” Stitch said, arms already wobbling. “I’m a medic. I should be treating the other men.”

            “ _I’m_ ordering you to rest.”

            “Sir.” Stitch swallowed, not wanting to argue but vibrating with tension. “I respect your command, but General Windu would want—”

            “I’ve already spoken to General Windu,” said Mittens sternly. “His orders are the same as mine.”

            Stitch sat still a moment. What was the Captain trying to do? Surely the General didn’t have any use for a medic who was weak enough to be injured by… he didn’t even remember how he’d gotten injured. Maybe missed a step and fallen down the cliff on his own.

            “It’s true,” Spill piped up, settling crosslegged beside him. “General Windu says you’re not allowed out of bed for at least twenty four hours.”

            “But… why?” Stitch shook his head a fraction, sinking, and shifted unsteadily, put his hands over his face. “If he has no use for me, it must mean I’m… I’m done here.”

            “That’s ridiculous,” scoffed Mittens. “He’s being only _logical_. You’ll be more efficient at helping the other men if you take the time to rest and heal!”

            “That’s… basic biology, brother,” said Sammich with a sheepish grin. “Even I know that.”

            Stitch felt heat rising into his already swollen face. “I… I know, sir, but” he began, slipping into echoing the words his first General had often used. “In war—”

            “In war, having no allowance for recovering casualties is _stupid_ ,” Mittens growled.

            Sammich laughed. Spill laughed too. Stitch felt his throat squeezing itself to death, and knew trying to fake a laugh would be pointless.

            Everyone went silent, and awkward. Stitch could hear the distant murmurs of other medics dealing with patients and ached with suppressed fear.

            “I know how it feels to think you’re useless and everyone’s just pitying you,” Spill mumbled at last. “But that’s not how it is with us. The way I see it, you’ve already proved your worth as a medic ten times over by wanting to treat the wounded when you could barely move.”

            “Yeah, no kidding,” said Sammich, with a low whistle. “Got guts, Stitch.”

            “But… you’re not useless, Spill,” said Stitch.

            “Tell that to my trainers on Kamino,” Spill said with a grimace. “I’m surprised they let me on the battlefield in the first place. One of them even said I’d be more of a threat to any squad I served with than the seppies would.”

            “They’re wrong!” Stitch protested. “I’ve only served with you for a short time and I’ve already seen that you’re attentive to your place in the squad, you work hard.”

            “Yeah, but I’m clumsy.” Spill sighed. “Anyway, the point of why I say this….” He scratched his head. “It’s… so you know, it’s okay, you don’t have to be perfect. We cover for each other, here. General Windu doesn’t give up that easily, and neither do we.”

            “None of us are perfect soldiers,” Mitts said, pushing Stitch firmly down onto the bedroll. “So just… follow orders and you’ll be fine.”

            Stitch took a deep breath and lay down on his back. His body relaxed a little. The relief was overwhelming. “I-I didn’t mean to argue, sir,” he struggled, realizing how his responses must have looked to the Captain now. “I’m… not used to….” He swallowed. “The General in my previous battalion was… he had high standards.”

            Mittens raised an eyebrow.

            “Oh!” said Sammich. “That explains why you’re so dedicated, I guess. We’re not slackers though, even if Cap does have a problem with my scruff.”

            Stitch swallowed. How could he explain? “I didn’t mean to say you were.”

            Mitts cleared his throat. “Your old general would send you on duty when you were injured like this?”

            “I’m a medic,” Stitch said faintly. “If I can’t save other soldiers, then why am I here? Every casualty is my responsibility.” He blinked hard against the heat, clenched his fists against his stomach. “Men are dying right now because I’m weak and selfish.”

            “Is that what your General used to say?” Spill asked.

            “No way,” laughed Sammich. “A Jedi?” Then his face fell in the following silence.

            Stitch nodded, dazed at the realization that he was parroting the General’s every enraged word. He could hear him bearing down on him now, the disappointment, the threat. Could almost see the blue saber blocking out his vision in warning.

            “He’s a Jedi,” Stitch said quietly, voice turning bitter and shaky despite his best efforts. “Of course he knows what’s right to expect from his men. He just… got stuck with a defective medic….”

            “You’re not defective,” Spill and Mitts both said at once, then glanced at each other.

            “Not any more than the rest of us,” Mitts said seriously, picking at a hole in the tent floor. His tone turned ironic. “If… a Captain who can’t deal with the sight of blood can still be a Captain….”

            “Oh, so _that’s_ why,” Sammich exclaimed.

            Mitts cleared his throat. “I mean, if a trooper who can’t seem to _answer his comm consistently_ is still one of the most effective members of the battalion…”

            Sammich grinned and scratched his head sheepishly. “Look, Cap, I explained….”

            “Or use respectful forms of address.”

            “SIR, Captain, Sir!” Sammich saluted five times in a row. Winked at Spill.

            “Just because Spill speaks to me a certain way doesn’t mean every soldier has the same rights,” Mitts said, but he was half-smiling. “We were batchers, after all.”

            “You weren’t angry?” Stitch broke in at last, stunned.

            “Angry? About what?” Mitts gave him an exasperated look.

            “I don’t know… you were angry when you found me on the rocks. I thought you were frustrated at having to haul me out.”

            Dismay made Mitts’ mouth drop open. “I was freaked out because you were covered in _blood_ , soldier! And you were trying to sit up and it was dripping off your chin!” He shuddered visibly. “You were in pain. I wasn’t _angry_ at you. Space.” He smacked his forehead.

            Spill patted the Captain on the shoulder with a knowing smile.

            “Shut up,” Mitts said.

            “I didn’t say anything,” Spill laughed.

            “I could hear you thinking it,” Mitts grumbled back, but he was grinning a little.

            “If General Windu is ordering me to rest for twenty four hours,” Stitch said uneasily. “What am I supposed to do to make up for the missing duty shifts? Did he say?”

            Again, the blank looks.

            “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sammich said. “You’re joking, right?”

            “What do you mean?” Stitch stared at him in dismay. “What did he say?”

            “What kinds of things did your General ask you to do when you had to miss a shift?” Sammich asked.

            “Just the usual,” Stitch shrugged. “Pull double shifts… give up rations. Stand for a public demerit.”

            “What’s a public demerit?” Spill looked like he dreaded the answer.

            “General Windu doesn’t do those?”

            “Never heard of ‘em,” Sammich said.

            “It’s just…” Stitch took a deep breath, “when a trooper isn’t pulling his weight, the General brings it to the attention of the rest of the battalion, and announces what the punishment will be, so everyone knows what’s expected of them. I thought every battalion did that.”

            The others were shaking their heads.

            “He made you give up rations?” Sammich breathed in horror. “What did he do with them?”

            “Redistributed them, I guess,” Stitch said, feeling sick. “Except once when he tossed them in a river as part of the public demerit, as an example of what my negligence was doing to the rest of the army. I was being a waste of resources.”

            “What!” Mitts cried. “That doesn’t make any sense! Then he’s the one wasting resources. Doesn’t he know how many credits it takes to feed an army this large?”

            “Seriously. You can’t be serious,” Sammich said. “Are you sure this guy was actually a Jedi and not some separatist scum in disguise?”

            “The other Jedi respect him,” Stitch said miserably. “General Shaak Ti said he was one of the wisest Jedi in the order. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but… something obviously was. Is.”

            “No,” Spill said, in a fierce undertone. “He may be a Jedi, but he’s wrong about you. And his methods of command are….”

            “Idiotic,” Mittens finished sharply.

            “Whoa. Captain.” Sammich stared.

            “What?” Mittens gave Sammich a stubborn I-dare-you-to-report-this-to-the-General look.

            “Uh, nothing, sir, Captain, sir.” Sammich saluted, grimacing. “I just don’ t understand how someone like this is allowed to _be_ a Jedi.”

            “The galaxy’s in trouble for more than one reason,” Mitts said cryptically.

            Sammich looked distressed. “I must have lucked out with my training and command. Our leaders can be harsh, yeah, but never unfair. Or cruel. Sounds like this guy was actually cruel.”

            “I don’t know,” Stitch sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound disloyal. There must be some reason he’s trusted by the Order. But I wanted to explain… why I’m like this. It must seem unreasonable to all of you.” He felt embarrassed, lying nearly naked here in front of them, fearing shadows in his own mind.

            “Not at all,” said Spill softly.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Mitts said frankly. “You’re here now and General Windu is a fair General. All he expects from you is to resume your usual duties after a full recovery.”

            Stitch swallowed the urge to ask _Are you sure?_

            “Anyway, if he did take away your rations, we’d share ours,” Sammich said. “At least, I would.”

            “Of course,” Spill said. He and Sammich looked expectantly at Mittens, whose face tightened a bit in embarrassment.

            “Uhh.” He coughed. “I mean… of course I would. If you… really needed them.”

            “Mitts never shares his food,” Spill said in a loud whisper to Stitch.

            “Oh. Really?” A nervous laugh from Sammich. “I’ll… remember that.”

            “Why are you all watching out for me like this?” Stitch said, before he could stop himself. “I mean… nevermind. Thank you.”

            “We’re brothers, Stitch,” Sammich said.

            “You’re gonna be risking your life to save ours plenty in the future,” Mittens said. “We’re just paying it back in advance.”

            Spill just smiled at Stitch for a minute, and said “Yeah. You’re one of us now. It’s just what we do. It’s how we survive.”

            “And we can already tell you’re a good soldier,” said Sammich.

            “Exactly. Now rest!” Mitts threw a corner of a thin blanket over Stitch’s face.

            Stitch took a deep breath. And slowly, he did relax… and sleep, with his brothers still standing guard around him.

 

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This beautiful scene](http://jasjuliet.tumblr.com/post/127534261547/stitch-earns-his-namesake) was captured by Jasjuliet. <3


	2. Not Made to Mend

"Medic...? Medic!"

Stitch jerked, nearly knocking the datapad at his elbow off of his worktable and into a stack of supply crates. The medical tent was dark. Sitting bolt upright, he spun around to face the row of medical cots packed tightly amidst quietly humming equipment, guilt driving his eyes into focus as he scanned the faces of the sleeping men that occupied them. He _knew_ better than to let himself drift off on the job. A quiet, strained chuckle drew his attention to the cot directly opposite him.

"Sorry, sir, didn't mean to startle you. I, uh... think it might be time for another hypo?"

The adrenaline subsided a little, and with it, the dream he'd been having before the rookie woke him up. Standing up slowly, Stitch scooped up his diagnostic scanner and keyed in his medical clearance code as he made his way across the tent.

"Don't worry about it, Eighteen-Fourteen , you were right to call me."

Gently lifting the thin insulating sheet used to regulate the body temperature of the men in medical, Stitch placed the scanner against 1814's chest. The injured clone hissed quietly as the cold instrument made contact with his skin. Stitch smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, I know it's cold. Bear with me, this will only take a minute."

1814's pale, drawn face flickered into something resembling a grin.

"Cold's an understatement, I'd take anything over this lifeless ice block. They told us about the climate out here in our mission briefing but I had no idea anywhere in the galaxy felt like _this._ "

The scanner beeped to indicate it had finished its diagnostic, and Stitch noted the results as he tucked the thermal sheet back around his patient. No major change, although 1814's body temperature was still a little higher than average. Prepping a pain hypo, he took a quick look at the site of the injury. 1814 had sustained complex fractures in his right leg, which had been pinned under his AT-RT when he'd been shot down. The injury was clean, but that didn't stop it being incredibly painful.

1814 was young. Younger than Stitch remembered being on his first mission, anyway. Back when he'd been a shiny, medical supplies had been relatively easy to come by, but as the war dragged on, medical shipments were coming less and less frequently.

He tried to focus on the task at hand, and not on the diminishing supplies he'd been surveying when he'd drifted off. Placing a gloved hand gently under 1814's chin, he guided his head carefully to one side and injected the hypo. Almost immediately, Stitch saw the tension ease in his patient's shoulders. For now, that was the best he could do.

"Get some rest, kid. My replacement will be here any minute now, he'll take things from here."

A bleary smile.

"Yessir."

Stitch squeezed 1814's shoulder lightly, scanning his young charge with relief as he slowly relaxed and slipped into medicated sleep.

"Good man."

* * *

 

Trudging through the snow on the way back to his squad's tent, Stitch's mind drifted back to the dream he'd been having. It had been the same one he'd been having almost constantly since the night they'd finally pulled out of that miserable canyon and made it back to base camp.

His memories of that day were mostly distilled down to painful flashes of clarity in a blur of noise and fear-- the way the charge had rolled to a stop just within their defensible perimeter, the way all the color had drained from Sammich's face as he identified the bomb, the way the captain's voice had cracked as he barked into his comm requesting immediate evac, only to be met with a burst of unresponsive static. The way everything seemed suspended as Sam worked, hands steady despite the sweat beading on his forehead. The way he'd looked up from his work, meeting Stitch's gaze for a fraction of a second with an intensity Stitch had seen in the eyes of so many of his brothers in the moments before he lost them. And then Sam was gone, sprinting away from the drop point with the live charge in his arms.

Stitch turned a corner around the perimeter of the encampment, nodding absently to the familiar silhouettes that stood out against the drifting snow. The men on guard were well equipped for the freezing temperatures, but they were still pacing, their breath drifting in clouds around them as they moved. Stitch was grateful to be off duty. He was exhausted. He hadn't slept through the night since that day. The ever increasing number of shinies they were taking on meant the med tent was almost always packed, and they'd had to be selective about cot assignments.

The first few nights after they'd made it back to base, Sam had been given a cot in the corner of medical. He'd managed to throw the charge just before it detonated, but the force of the blast had hurled him backward, shrapnel cracking his plates in various places. He'd lost his bucket in the blast, and had he not lifted his arms to cover his face, the damage would have been fatal.

When they'd brought him into medical, he was a mess of singed hair and dried blood. Stitch had spent hours picking shrapnel out of Sam's forearms, his mind narrowly focused on what was right beneath his hands. In surgery, Stitch was calm, and it wasn't until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and turned to see Spill's worried face framed in morning light that he realized how long he'd been working.

That had been about five or six rotations ago, or so he assumed. Stitch had stopped keeping track of time in terms of rotations as much as in the cycles of administering medication to his patients or trying to sleep. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a nagging anxiety bubbled to the surface: this base was only a temporary supply point. Their orders to ship back out could come at any time. Stitch wondered wearily how it was possible that they were reportedly so close to victory when every day saw more injuries and casualties.

As he approached the featureless exterior of his squad's tent, he took a deep breath and did his best to push those fears to the back of his mind. He was exhausted, but his focus was critical. Quietly, slowly, he unzipped the tent flap, slipping into the warmth and sealing the opening against the icy wind. The two cots nearest the entrance were empty. Spill and Mitts were out on patrol. From the far corner of the tent, the faint glow of a fusion lantern caught Stitch's eye.

"Sam? What are you doing awake?"

Sammich was sitting upright in his cot, a reg manual datapad lying flat across his lap between heavily bandaged hands. He looked up from the text, his face pale and tense, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth despite it all.

"What, and miss all this action? Come on, Stitch, that's not like me."

Stitch chuckled, hefting the medkit he'd been carrying on his back onto the end of his own cot, where it settled with a thud.

"Yeah, I guess not. It's getting pretty tense out there, and I know how much you _love_ snow."

Sam replied with a scowl, groaning as he sunk back into the thermal sheet he was wrapped in.

"If I never saw the stuff again it'd be too soon. When this war is over we're going somewhere _warm._ We weren't designed for this! No one is designed for this!"

Rummaging in the medkit, Stitch pulled out a few rolls of simple cloth bandages and a loaded hypo he'd salvaged from the diminishing supplies in the medical tent. He gestured vaguely towards the edge of the cot, too exhausted to put much thought into his mode of communication. Besides, Sammy knew what he meant. This had become a quiet routine over the last few nights.

Sammich sighed, and out of the corner of his eye, Stitch noticed the teasing grin that seemed to be a permanent part of his brother's face dim a little. _Stress response._ Stitch checked the hypo carefully as Sammich slipped out of bed, the thermal sheet still wrapped tightly around him, and perched at the edge of his cot.  Laying his medical supplies at the foot of his own cot opposite his brother's, he willed his voice to be steady and impassive.

"How's the pain, Sam?"

The scruffy clone laughed, but it sounded thin and forced.

"How do you _think_ it is?"

"I know, Sam, but you know this is standard procedure. I need to hear it in your own words."

Sammich sighed, shifted uncomfortably.

"I know, brother... to tell the truth... it isn't good..."

"Be as specific as you can be... where does it hurt today, and what does it feel like? Sharp, tingling...?"

" _Burning_ , Stitch," Sam rasped, his voice suddenly heavy. "All the way up to my shoulder. I thought when I took that blast the worst of it was in my hand, with the... with the shrapnel and the scorching and all. But the last few days the burning has been so bad... I know you pulled a lotta shrapnel out of my arm, too, but... I thought my hand took the worst of it, y'know?"

Stitch felt his stomach knot, but he kept his face carefully blank.

"Okay. Well, let's take care of the pain first."

He held up the hypo and Sammich leaned obediently towards him. Stitch injected it carefully, with hands that were steadier than he felt.

"That should start to kick in pretty quickly. Should take the edge off of this a little bit, too."

Sammich nodded, and knowing what was expected of him, he gingerly pulled his bandaged arm out from under the thermal, shivering slightly at the influx of cold air that pushed its way through the opening. While his injuries were still raw, it was too painful to put on and remove the tight sleeves of the standard issue bodysuits the clones wore, but this climate was too inhospitable to leave much skin exposed for long. Stitch had improvised, cutting the sleeves off of an old bodysuit. Sammich's bandages extended the entire length of his right arm, and Stitch needed regular access to redress them. It was the best he could do in the current conditions.

Moving forward to the very edge of his cot, Stitch took Sammich's arm gently, beginning the slow, painful process of unravelling the dressings. He could feel his brother's pulse quicken beneath his fingers, and he worked as gingerly as he could, focusing on the task in front of him. Bruised, raw, and swollen, but at least no further sign of infection. Stitch placed the dirty bandages in a small disposal capsule and set them aside. Sammich's head was turned, his eyes averted as much as possible.

Taking a deep breath, Stitch took a look at his brother's hand, training his eyes to focus on medical irregularities. Intrusive memories drifted through his mind: those hands as they skimmed hard plastic, painting delicate lines onto the surface. Those hands against the sides of his head, shaving the patterns he wore into his freshly cropped hair. He set that aside, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten as he scanned the injuries in front of him.

The gap where Sam's middle finger had been drew the medic's attention, so he started there. The site of the amputation was clean, and he was thankful for that much. He had overseen the procedure himself, but it hadn't been without complication, and the medical supplies on base were running dangerously low. He'd reassured Sammich at the time that good prosthetics would restore any function he'd lost, that at least it hadn't been his trigger finger, but as his eyes traced the unnaturally rigid curl of his brother's hand now, he felt himself tense. He didn't have his diagnostic scanner with him-- that equipment had to remain in the medical tent given the influx of injured men they were treating, but he wasn't sure it would tell him anything he didn't already suspect was true.

"Can you feel this, Sam?"

Stitch applied pressure to his brother's remaining fingers. Sammich didn't move.

"Sam? Can you move your hand for me a little bit...?"

A weak twitch. The injured hand curled tighter, claw-like. _Nerve damage._ Sammich was stiff, his breathing ragged and shallow. He turned his head slowly, still avoiding looking at the injury, fixing his eyes on the medic instead.

"Stitch... is it... is it bad, brother? Am I... is it gonna get better?"

Stitch felt his hands reaching for the clean, bacta infused bandages, but he was only dimly aware of it. He could feel his brother's eyes locked onto him as his fingers worked carefully, wrapping the injured arm slowly and deliberately. He'd seen this look before, and it ached every time he looked into a soldier's eyes and saw his own fear and desperation reflected in the face they shared.

Finishing the wrapping, he forced himself to look up. Even without the scanner, Stitch knew the signs. When Sammich had protected his face from that blast, his arm had taken the full brunt of the almost point-blank explosion. It was a miracle he'd survived, but he'd been a mess of burns and shrapnel wounds when he'd come in. Nerve damage was unsurprising given the circumstances, and while this was something any medic worth his salt-- with time, patience, and the right equipment-- could fix, these were all things the Grand Army of the Republic was running shorter on by the minute. Without the right kind of rehabilitation...

"Stitch...?"

His brother's voice was pleading. Stitch met his gaze quietly, unsure of what to tell him. The truth was that he didn't know. The truth was that out here, with the supplies they had, the procedures he knew would be needed were out of his reach. But those truths would be of no comfort to his brother, and Stitch knew that comfort might be the best treatment he could give. He reached for another truth.

"I am going to do everything I can to make sure you do, Sammy... I promise..."

His voice came out surprisingly soft in his own ears, stripped of the medic's impassive tone he'd been so careful to maintain. His brother's face softened in response, a gentle glow flickering to life in his eyes. _Trust._ Stitch stood up, helping Sammich back into his cot and under the thermal. Outside, the wind kicked up into a howl, rattling against the outer shell of the tent. Stitch reached up and dimmed the fusion lantern, leaving just enough light for Mitts and Spill to see by when they returned, and settled down on his own cot for a rest he knew would be all too short.

"Try and get some sleep, okay? My next shift with medical is in 4 hours, but until then, I'll be right here."


End file.
